DEAD! dead! And now before
The threshold of bereavëd Earnscliffe stand,
In spirit, all who dwell within our land,
From shore to shore!
Before that black-draped gate,
Men, women, children mourn the Premier gone,
For many loved and worshipped old Sir John,
And none could hate.
And he is dead, they say!
The words confuse and mock the general ear—